


The Quality of Mercy

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deception, Gen, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Physical Abuse, emotional torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 16:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: On the planet of La France Renaît, D'Artagnan seeks work after the loss of his home and his father. He finds a job in the prison wing of a hospital in New France, only to come face to face with the man who might be responsible for the death of his father and hundreds of others.Facing an ethical dilemma when he learns the prisoner is being tortured, he must decide what kind of man he wants to be.





	The Quality of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Though the story has a character being tortured, there are no graphic or gory details.
> 
> Inspired by watching Luke Pasqualino push John Hurt around in a wheelchair in _Snowpiercer_ which sent me off thinking about a Man in the Iron Mask scenario. This story isn't much like either :)

The clerk read the chip in his wrist. “Confirm your name, date of birth, and settlement.”

“Charles d’Artagnan, seven ten five oh three, Lupiac in the department of Gascony.”

She handed him a screen. “Available positions listed here. You can apply directly. Next.” The entire conversation had been conducted without her looking at him once.

D’Artagnan turned away, hiding his annoyance at the bored and peremptory processing. There were several dozen fellow refugees in the room, but a little kindness and sympathy for the lost and homeless would have been nice. So far, New Paris, from the stinginess of the hostel accommodation to the meagre allowances for food and clothing, didn’t impress him.

He took a seat and scanned the screen. The jobs on offer had been filtered for his age and qualifications, and since there was little need for farmers or volunteer firemen in this sprawling city of millions, his pickings were lean. He submitted an application for a nurse’s aide position, another for a gardener, and—with hope more than expectation—one for a paramedic, then handed the screen back to the guard on the door.

He found a seat in one of the many micro parks this city prided itself on, and pulled out a jujaplo, having kept the fruit back from breakfast. His eyes filled as he tasted it, remembering the fruit he and his father used to grow and pick on the farm. Papa had only been dead two weeks, but every part of d’Artagnan’s life had changed since then, as if the farm, Lupiac, and his father were nothing but dreams from his childhood. Now his reality was stone buildings and manicured trees and flowers, and charity from an administration keen to keep costs down. The Lupiac refugees had been dispersed to six different cities, and twenty different arrondissements within them, and d’Artagnan was the only one in the hostel to which he’d been allocated two days ago. The loneliness this ensured was just one more insult to the injury of losing his home and surviving parent to the CounterReformationists.

Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help, but on the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt either. So he let himself mope while he ate his fruit. Then he wiped his hands on his pants and went walking, hoping to find inspiration or work on these unfamiliar and unfriendly streets.

Half an hour later, he received a message, telling him to present himself in one hour to Pioneer Hospital for an interview. He had no better clothes to wear, and his hair was too short to be messy, so he found a public restroom where he could wash his face and hands, and check his appearance. Reaching the hospital would take him fifteen minutes by foot. The other forty-five he could spend rehearsing how to make his first aid training sound more impressive than it was.

It turned out his training didn’t really matter, as everything he needed to know would be taught on the job. Constance, the pretty red-haired woman who interviewed him, only wanted to know if seeing vomitus made him puke in sympathy—no— whether he fainted at the sight of blood—ditto—and how much he could lift unassisted—enough.

His schooling was sufficient, as was his health, and everything else was a bonus, she said. “Now, the only thing left to ask is how you feel about working in the prison wing of the hospital.”

“I’m fine with it.”

“Are you sure? This is where some of the worst criminals on the planet are kept, Charles. Lifers, irredeemable, vile. Their crimes would sicken anyone. Yet they are also elderly and ill and deserving of the same care and compassion as anyone else. Can you do that? Work with the worst and give of your best?”

“Yes, madame. I’m not cruel or vindictive. At least, I’ve never been told I am.”

She gave him a dimpled smile. “Then you can start immediately on a probationary basis. I’ll take you to Stores and you can pick out three sets of scrubs and work shoes, introduce you to your nurse supervisor, then you come back tomorrow to start.”

“So quickly?”

“Of course. We have been given instructions to prioritise the refugees, we need someone now, and it’s not like you have a job you have to quit, is it?”

“No. I mean, thank you!”

Her smile softened. “One bit of good news amongst all the bad, then?”

“You have no idea,” d’Artagnan said with feeling.

“I have a little,” she said. “All these people The CounterReformationists are making homeless. It’s outrageous that we can’t stop them.”

“We don’t matter,” d’Artagnan said, unable to hide his bitterness. “We’re hundreds of kilometres away, and politicians only care about what’s under their noses.”

“Some of them aren’t like that,” she said. “Now, let’s get you sorted out.”

**********************

Two days later, d’Artagnan was as trained as he was going to get, and given the responsibility of handing out medication while ensuring the patients/prisoners actually swallowed them. He was also allowed to give injections, somewhat to his surprise. The nurse in charge of him, Lavalle, had spent half an hour showing him how, another half hour on how to make sure he was giving the right patient the right drugs, and then he was put to work. There were twelve inmates, all over seventy, all male, sharing an open ward. His job, apart from giving them their medicine, was to clean and fetch and lift as directed or needed.

Despite Constance’s dire warnings about the evil natures of his charges, d’Artagnan only saw them as old men, more dangerous to themselves than to others. Six of them were bed-ridden, the others unable to get about except in wheelchairs. They received no visitors except medical personnel, and spent most of their days asleep, either in their beds, or in their chairs out in the small sitting room where daylight came in most of the day. The hardest part of the routine was when it came time to wash them. Charles and the other aide, Pascal, gave bed baths or took them to the shower room, as needed.

Honestly, he’d had more trouble with the beasts back on the farm.

The big exception to the normality of these old prisoner patients was the one only known as Prisoner A, who had come to the prisoner wing a week before d’Artagnan’s hiring. Lavalle had been unable to conceal his contempt for the man, though he wasn’t allowed to tell d’Artagnan why he felt that way. “He’ll be dead soon enough, and good riddance too,” Lavalle had said.

Evidence of the extreme nature of his crimes came in the manner in which he was kept. He had a room at the end of the ward which was locked at all times, and he was shackled to the bed, despite being heavily medicated to the point of being unintelligible when he talked, and barely able to stand when he was lifted from the bed to wash. His eyes were hidden behind adhesive pads—not, d’Artagnan was told, because of injury, but because he was delusional and paranoid, prone to violent and highly vicious attacks on those around him. Keeping him sightless was a safety measure.

D’Artagnan took this information seriously, though after a couple of days on the job, he did think the precautions and restraints were a little much. Prisoner A was skinny and frail, fed through a nasogastric tube. His medication was delivered through a port in his chest, and he peed into a catheter. The shackles meant he could not lift his hands above his waist, so drool and anything else caught in his long, untidy beard had to be removed by someone else—usually d’Artagnan.

Prisoner A was a curiosity, but took up very little of d’Artagnan’s time, since he was only allowed off the bed to be washed while the linen was changed, once a day. Other than giving him the injected medications and feeds through the tube, and empty the catheter bag, d’Artagnan didn’t have to do much more than that for him.

The routine, once strange and new, became familiar and a little dull in less than a week. D’Artagnan performed his duties with care and kindness, but he now realised why Constance had not been concerned about his background or experience. A child aged ten of sufficient size could do the job as easily as he could. But it was money coming in, a regular and generous food allowance while on the job, free clothes and shoes, and meant he could move to the staff residence attached to the hospital, which in turn meant cheaper food and other costs.

He ate in the hospital canteen most days, because it was cheap and the food plentiful, if not especially delicious. He was saving every cent for his future, so wasting money buying better-tasting food was ridiculous. He could be a gourmet when he had a better job and an apartment of his own.

And while he was doing such an easy and stress-free job, he could take courses and retrain for another position. Lupiac might rise again, but he had a feeling his former, happy life in the settlements was gone forever. Time to get over it, and himself.

Pascal also lived in the staff accommodation, and became a friend of sorts. He wasn’t the brightest person d’Artagnan had ever met, and tended to think in straight lines when it came to problems, but he had an easy-going nature and not a gram of meanness in him. Since d’Artagnan knew almost no one else in New Paris, he wasn’t going to dismiss the few people he did.

They usually ate supper together as well as breakfast, though not lunch as they were rostered at different times to provide cover. Two weeks after d’Artagnan joined the staff, Pascal appeared at the table with his breakfast, worried clearly wanting to talk privately. D’Artagnan moved in closer to listen. “I found out who Prisoner A is.”

“Yeah? Who is he?”

“The Cardinal.”

D’Artagnan was forking a mouthful of protein into his mouth and nearly choked. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, seriously. They captured him just after that attack on your settlement.”

“The head of The CounterReformationists? Beastpoo. The attacks are still happening.”

Pascal shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s what I heard from Dubois, and he would know.”

Dubois was the senior guard, and yes, he _would_ know. “Why hasn’t the President announced it then?”

“Dunno. Must be a reason, though.”

D’Artagnan forced himself to finish his meal because wasting food was one of the worst crimes an innocent man could commit on La France Renaît, but it tasted of ashes in his mouth. He excused himself as soon as he was done, even though Pascal was eager to talk more about his exciting news, and went back to his room.

The Cardinal was personally responsible for hundreds of deaths, including d’Artagnan’s father’s, and for the destructions of a dozen settlements in the last three years. The CounterReformationists were determined to create a New Catholic state, reclaiming the secular planetary Republic, and enforcing a new moral order. Why they had to destroy and uproot and murder in territory already claimed by hard-working settlers, d’Artagnan didn’t know, except that it got them a lot of attention from the government. In their position, he would have just settled virgin land and got on with their mad schemes.

Unless it was more about making other people do what they wanted, than living in their godly utopia, of course.

D’Artagnan had brought almost nothing with him from Lupiac except the clothes on his back and the communicator in his pocket. At least there were some images in there of his father and the farm. But everything else—everything he had worked for, loved, grown up with—was gone. And all because of that fucker on the ward, still breathing while d’Artagnan’s Papa had been recycled and put back into the earth to feed the soil.

Turn the Cardinal into compost sounded like a fine idea to d’Artagnan right now.

He found it impossible to put on a smiling face on duty the next day, and even the inmates noticed. “Cheer up, lad,” LaBarge said. “Might never ‘appen.”

“Already did, didn’t it.”

LaBarge chuckled, not actually interested in why d’Artagnan was cranky. Then again, he was a multiple murderer and diagnosed psychopath, so that didn’t surprise d’Artagnan.

He collected the medications for the ward and dispensed them, not engaging in the banter that the inmates used to pass some of their dreary time. Then he picked up the tray for the injection and feed for Prisoner A.

The man was awake, he could tell, because he was mumbling to himself as he often did. Sometimes d’Artagnan picked out names, like ‘Porthos’ and ‘Treville’, but mostly it was literal gibberish. The prisoner usually stopped talking when d’Artagnan injected him with the sedative, and turned his blind face towards him, at which point d’Artagnan usually told him who was there and what was happening.

Not today. He couldn’t bring himself to show that small courtesy. He hooked up the feed and waited in silence for the goop to run out of the bag and into the skinny body of the most evil man the five-hundred-year history of the planet had ever seen.

His silence clearly confused the prisoner, who kept straining as if to try and see him, and plucking at the sheets in frustration at not being able to reach out and touch him.

“Who?”

D’Artagnan nearly dropped the tray in surprise. He didn’t answer though.

“Please?”

“One of your victims, _your_ _eminence_. Hope the food chokes you.”

He stalked out, angry, and more than a little ashamed at his childishness. This was exactly what Constance had asked him if he could refrain from doing.

But...the _Cardinal_.

“Are you all right, d’Artagnan?” Lavalle asked when d’Artagnan returned the tray.

“Yes. Um...a headache, that’s all.”

“Ditch that and take a break. Go get some fresh air. Take fifteen.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Pascal looked at him as he passed. “You okay, d’Artagnan?”

“Yeah, just getting some air.” D’Artagnan hurried out before Pascal could ask anything else.

He went across the street from the hospital to the little park and did as ordered, inhaling air deep into his lungs. He couldn’t keep doing that kind of thing if he wanted to keep his job. The Cardinal wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was d’Artagnan, at least, not yet.

“Charles? What are you doing out here?”

D’Artagnan jumped, and flushed. “Oh, uh. Hello, Constance, just taking a break.”

She sat down next to him. “So am I. May I join you?”

“Sure.”

She smiled. “You look upset. What happened?”

He thought about lying, but then, she had been kind. “I just found out who one of the prisoners is. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That Prisoner A is the man behind the group who killed my father and burned our farm, my home, to the ground.”

She appeared surprised. “What have you been told?”

“I heard that one of the prisoners is the Cardinal.”

“News to me. But then I don’t have anything to do with that side of it. I’m sorry. When I asked you...I had no idea. Can you handle it?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I was a bit...short with him this morning. I didn’t hurt him, but I was...I wasn’t nice.”

“Oh, Charles.” It hurt to see her disappointment. “Are you going to keep doing that?”

“No. It was wrong of me. But Papa....” He wiped his nose, then the shameful tears from his eyes.

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to arrange a transfer for you?”

“No! No, I’m fine. I’m ashamed I wasn’t able to do as I promised you. I’ll do better.”

“I know you will,” she said, giving him another of her lovely smiles. “It might not even be true, you know. Gossip runs through this place like fire, and if I had a franc for every time the President or the Prime Minister was supposedly a patient here, I’d be able to retire.”

“Oh. I never thought it might not be true.” But at the same time, he felt in his gut that it had to be. The seclusion, the security—when an appalling, violent human being like Martin LaBarge was allowed to lie peacefully in a bed without restraints or special measures, that meant Prisoner A had to be even _worse_. And who else could that be?

“Well then. How do you feel now?”

“Stupid.”

She patted his shoulder. “No, just human. Can you keep doing the job?”

“Yes. I’ll do better.”

“Good man. Now I have to go, and so do you.” She dimpled at him. “Maybe you and I could have lunch one day?”

That made him go red all over again? “With me?”

“That would be the idea,” she said, her eyes bright with amusement.

“I’d love to!”

“Then I’ll get in touch with you at the ward, once I check my schedule.” She bent over and kissed his cheek. “Be brave, Charles. I know you can do it.”

He rubbed the spot she’d kissed, watching her cross the road and go back into the hospital. _Wow._ Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

**********************

Constance let her two visitors in, checked no one was watching them, and shut and locked the door. “Right, there’s good news and bad news.”

“The bad news?” Aramis asked.

“Du Plessis’s disinformation team have moved quickly to spread the rumour that Athos is the Cardinal.”

“I know,” Porthos growled. “Three people went out of their way to tell me today.”

“That’s not necessarily bad news,” Aramis said. “Although it’s not helpful. But the good news?”

“We’ve got our in,” she said. “D’Artagnan heard the rumour, and I think he can be persuaded to help despite his initial reaction.”

“Quick work,” Aramis said, throwing himself on to the couch. “I have to admit I was sceptical a refugee would be any use.”

“You didn’t meet him,” Constance said, waving at Porthos when he poked his head into her kitchen. “In the chiller,” she said, knowing her comrade was looking for some of her home-made pastries. “I just got that vibe from him. Wounded, but generous of soul.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Athos’s life is riding on your hunch, my dear.”

“And I was right, so there. He’s a lovely boy. Man,” she corrected. “Oh, shut up,” she said to another eyebrow lift. “Now it’s your turn. Make contact, make friends, encourage humanitarian feelings.”

“Lemay’s in position?”

“I signed his contract today. Now we just need to wait until one of the prisoners need a doctor’s attendance. Then we’ll know what state Athos was in.” Although it surely couldn’t be good, she thought. Athos had been snatched over six weeks ago, and only when he resurfaced in the prison wing of the hospital, did anyone have any idea where he was being held. Anything could have happened to him before that. Fortunately Constance’s day job was in the hospital and she had heard about the move, or Athos would still be lost to them.

“If you’d let me take a job there as a nurse, I could have told you,” Aramis said.

She scowled. “You know why. The security check is much tighter for professionals. We couldn’t risk it.”

“Not even for Athos?”

“Treville said no. Stop rehashing this.”

Porthos joined them, a plate of dainties in front of him. “Yeah, knock it off,” he told his friend. “But how do we find out how bad off Athos is?”

“Lemay, I suppose. He’ll need to sneak a look at his records, although we can’t be sure they’re accurate. Or rely on clever questioning of our boy. Man. Shut up.” Aramis grinned and she felt like throwing a cushion at him. “We don’t have a choice. We have to move before they break him, and if he dies in the process, then maybe that’s kinder in the long run.”

“Cold,” Porthos said, staring at her mid-chew.

“Realistic. Look, I love Athos too. But would any of us want to live like that?”

“We’re not him,” Aramis said. “But speaking personally? No.”

“Me neither, I guess,” Porthos said. “You’re gonna keep working on him too, right?”

“Of course. We all have to. We can do it without him, if we have to, but it’s easier if we have someone on the inside.”

“I wish there was some way to tell him we’re trying to get him out,” Aramis said. “Athos isn’t a soldier. He wasn’t trained for this.”

“He knows Treville won’t abandon him,” Constance said.

“Hope you’re right,” Porthos said, setting down his plate and looking suddenly morose.

“There’s no point in being gloomy. Get to work on d’Artagnan, but as soon as we can, we move. There’s no time to waste.”

“Yes, madame,” Aramis said, with none of his usual cheek. But then again, this was about one of their closest friends, and one of their most valued agents. There was nothing amusing about Athos being in the Cardinal’s clutches.

**********************

“Seen him,” Porthos murmured when Aramis nudged him. They headed toward the table where Constance’s new hire was sitting on his own.

“Hey,” Aramis said. “New blood. Mind if we join you?”

The lad—boy, Constance hadn’t been wrong about that—looked up in surprise. “Not at all.”

Porthos held out his hand. “Kylian. I work in the laundry.”

“And I’m Damien, also laundry,” Aramis said after d’Artagnan shook Porthos’s hand, and Aramis held out his own.

“I’m Charles, but everyone calls me D’Artagnan. I work in the prison wing.”

“Why do they call you d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked.

“I dunno. Just always have. I like my name.”

“‘s good name,” Porthos agreed. “Prison wing. That’s a tough gig, innit.”

“Not really. Just a bunch of sick old men.” The lad looked down at his plate. “Mostly, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Porthos leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard a hell of a rumour yesterday, ‘bout someone being kept in that wing.”

“About Prisoner A?”

“Don’t know about no Prisoner A, but one of the girls said, that someone she knew up on the floor was told by someone else—”

“That gossip chain is starting to sound more like old rope,” Aramis said, laughing at his friend.

“Shut up. Anyways, what she said was that one of the prisoners is the Cardinal. You heard anything about that?”

Aramis held his breath while d’Artagnan considered. He exhaled when the boy nodded. “I heard it too.”

“Reckon it’s true?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You seen him?”

“I can’t really talk about the patients, Kylian.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry. Never mind that. How are you liking it? When did you start? Ain’t seen you around before.”

Using his charm and big smiles, Porthos drew out from d’Artagnan the story they already knew about how he had come to New Paris, and why he’d ended up in this job. Aramis added the sympathetic counterpoints while they listened, then said, “Tough on you, making you look after that bastard. I mean, if the rumours are true.”

The boy looked down. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

“You ain’t too nice to him, I hope,” Porthos said.

D’Artagnan looked up, something turbulent in his expression. “If you saw him, you’d know that no one’s being nice to him.”

“They can’t be torturing him,” Porthos said lightly, even though it was their worst fear. “Ain’t legal.”

“Not torture. But he’s kept blindfolded, shackled, pisses in a tube, gets fed by another one...I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it, but if it’s really him, they should put him on trial and put him in a proper prison. This is a hospital.”

“You saying he ain’t really sick then.”

“Maybe he wasn’t when they caught him, but he will be when they’re finished with him.”

“That’s not how things are supposed to be,” Aramis said. “Put him on trial, if they want. What’s the point of keeping him tied up all day?”

“Drugged and in a bed too. It’d kill me,” d’Artagnan said. “If they want him dead, then they should try him and execute him clean. I’d fire the gun myself.”

“Yeah, can’t blame you for that,” Porthos said, as always, a master of hiding his true feelings. “Dunno what they’re playing at then. Maybe they want to ask him questions or something.”

“No one goes near him, except—” D’Artagnan’s mouth closed abruptly. “I shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Fair enough,” Aramis said easily. “Don’t mind us. We get bored and gossip’s just a way to pass the time until we clock off and go for a drink. What about you?”

D’Artagnan looked at him in confusion. “What about me what?”

“Do you like to go for a drink?”

“Uh, no. Not really. I’m saving up. I’m going to make something of myself. Papa would want it that way.”

“Good lad,” Aramis said, putting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and watching minutely for any sign of interest in male contact. Nothing. Fortunately Constance was around to provide an alternative. “Don’t let us corrupt you. But maybe you’d like to come out for something soft and wet and watch us make fools of ourselves. Unless you’re busy or something?”

“Uh, when?”

“Whenever it suits you. We don’t have plans. Or lives. Just each other, and sweet, sweet booze.”

“Forgot the gambling,” Porthos muttered, grinning at D’Artagnan.

“We will not talk of the gambling in front of a nicely raised young man from the settlements,” Aramis said with mock primness. “What’s your callsign?” He pulled out his own communicator. “We could contact you, see if you want to head out.”

“Sure.” D’Artagnan tapped his device to Aramis’s and that exchanged their contact information. “But I’m serious about saving. No gambling.”

“None at all,” Aramis said. “I won’t even offer to tell you about the cards he hides up his sleeve.”

“Damien,” Porthos said with a practiced, patient sigh. “I only use them in an emergency.”

“Like an emergency of you not winning, you mean.”

Porthos let out a belly laugh, and D’Artagnan smiled broadly. “Disgusting morals,” Aramis said. “Fortunately, mine are no better. Hope you aren’t fussy about your companions, d’Artagnan.”

“I don’t have enough to be.”

“Good. Then we’ll do until you find enough and afford to discard the riff-raff. Kylian, we’re running late.”

“Bugger. Nice to meet ya, kid. Hopefully catch up with you soon.”

“Yes, me too.”

Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder as they walked away. “That went surprisingly well,” he murmured.

“Shut up or you’ll jinx it, you silly bastard.”

Aramis smiled, then sent a message to Constance. Y _ou’re up. A shackled, drugged, blindfolded. More suspected._

Her reply came immediately. _Shit. Will make contact this afternoon. Good work._

A lot depended on Constance being right about d’Artagnan’s temperament, and the lad’s susceptibility to her charms. Aramis had every faith in both.

**********************

For the second time since he started in the prison wing, Prisoner A was missing from his room when d’Artagnan started his shift. The first time, d’Artagnan had made the mistake of asking Lavalle what had happened to him. Lavalle had rounded on him. “You _don’t_ ask questions about the patients or what is done with them, understand, boy? It’s not your job, or your business. Get it?”

“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan had said, gulping, and then kept his head down the rest of the day. The mystery prisoner had reappeared two days later, and no one said a thing about it.

This was before d’Artagnan learned the man might be the Cardinal, so the disappearance took on greater significance than it had before. After talking to the friendly but definitely nutty pair of friends in the canteen, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder if the disappearances were more sinister than he’d first thought. He’d assumed that maybe they were trying out some special treatment on him, to make him safer or saner. Now he considered that the ‘special treatment’ might not be intended to benefit the prisoner at all.

Gloomy thoughts which did nothing for his mood, but Constance’s message after lunch lifted it, and came as a pleasant surprise. He thought maybe she was just being polite, talking about meeting up for lunch. But when he called her during his break, she was enthusiastic about seeing him, and when he admitted he always ate at the staff accommodation in the evenings, she was horrified.

“That won’t do. Come to my place after work. Are you busy tonight?”

“No, but...we hardly know each other.”

“That’s right. So we’ll have supper together so we _can_ get to know each other. That’s how it works,” she explained, and though he heard her smile, he wanted to smack himself for being so...so provincial. “I’ll meet you in the main lobby when you get off.”

“I finish at—”

“I know,” she said. “I have to process the rosters. See you!”

Conscious of again revealing his slow wits, d’Artagnan wondered why a beautiful woman like Constance would be interested in him, but then he mentally slapped himself. She was just being friendly. Being nice to the poor refugee, no doubt.

That sent his mood downwards again. It went up and down all the time these days. If he was working with patients more sensitive to his welfare, it could have been a problem, but fortunately he wasn’t. Pascal noticed, but the mysteries of the human mind were more than he could cope with, so thankfully he usually ignored them.

Having convinced himself he was the recipient of unwanted pity, d’Artagnan was thus in an unpleasant frame of mind while he waited for Constance in the lobby. Her lovely smile did a little to cheer him, but she still frowned at his expression. “What’s wrong, Charles?”

“Nothing. You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Be nice to me. There are hundreds of refugees in the city. You don’t have to be kind to me out of duty.”

She hooked his arm with hers. “Good, because I’m not going to. Is it so hard to imagine someone liking you for yourself? I thought you said people thought well of you back home.”

“Uh...yeah. I guess.”

“Then stop moping and come along. It’s not far.”

The block of apartments was nicer than the staff accommodation, so it was no mystery why she had moved out. “How long before I could afford something like this?” he asked as they walked up the stairs.

“Less time than you think. The rent is controlled, and people who work in the city always get priority. Saves the city money, you see. They don’t have to build so much public transport. It’s not like the cities you’ve read about from history books, Charles. Old Paris was nothing like this.”

Her apartment was a lot smaller than the farmhouse d’Artagnan had grown up in, but it was friendly and warm much like its tenant. D’Artagnan felt at home immediately. A dangerous emotion for a refugee, he already knew.

“Tea?” Constance asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Oh, don’t hover. Have a seat. I wasn’t going to put supper on straight away, unless you’re hungry.”

He sat on the sofa, trying to look relaxed but attentive. “No, I’m fine. I had a big lunch. I met a couple of guys who work in the laundry at the hospital. They came over to say hello.”

She spoked to him from through the kitchen door. “Did someone make them be nice to you too?”

He flushed. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Oh hush. I’m sure it’s awful for you, being new in the city and with everything that happened back home.” She came back into the room with two mugs of tea, and handed him one. She stood against the doorjamb to drink her own. “But we’re not all monsters here. What are they like? The guys, I mean.”

“Oh. Fun. Mad, but fun. They wanted me to go out for a drink with them sometime.”

“There, you see? And no one paid them.”

“I hope not. I mean, that would be really weird.”

She laughed. “Yes, it would. And how’s work? Is it still hard seeing that man?”

“No, I’m okay. Though he’s not there at the moment.”

“Oh? Where is he?”

“No one will say, and I’m not allowed to ask.”

“That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

“Not if he’s you know who, I guess. Um, can I ask you something?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe. Don’t get cheeky though.”

“No! I wasn’t....” She grinned. “Uh, okay. Just something one of the guys said today, about torture. When this prisoner came back last time, he was unconscious, and when he woke up, he was trembling and moaning, kept calling for someone called Treville, I think. He looked like he was really disturbed, you know? They say he’s mentally fucked up, but this was different.”

She shivered. “Sounds awful...oh no, you think he might be being...oh Charles. That’s horrible.”

“But do you think he might be? I mean, it’s illegal and everything, but then if he’s really the Cardinal....” He bit his lip. “If he _is_ being tortured, that’s wrong. But if it’s to save other people, does that make it okay?”

“Of course it doesn’t,” she snapped. He straightened up in surprise. “Sorry. I hate violence and cruelty. I don’t care if he _is_ the Cardinal. We have laws for a reason. If we want to be appalling to people we don’t approve of, we may as well all run off and join the CounterReformationists. That’s why I hate them so much. The reason they do what they do, as well as what they actually do.”

He nodded. “Yeah, me too. You’re right. It’s wrong to torture him regardless. But what should I do? It’s the government doing this, right? So if I report it, then nothing will happen, except maybe I lose my job.”

“I don’t know, Charles. Maybe he’ll die and solve the dilemma for you.”

“If I was him, I know I’d prefer to be dead. His life is so fucking horrible.”

She frowned. “Does he look like he might die any time?”

“How would I know? I’m not a doctor.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean....”

“No, no, me either. I just meant I can’t tell. He’s really thin, and he doesn’t make a lot of sense when he talks, so I don’t know what it’s like in his head. But I don’t know how long someone can live chained up in a bed all day, fed on goop. The other prisoners are tough old buggers, and they’ll probably keep going and going, but this one isn’t like that. I don’t think he can last as long as them.”

“Horrible,” she murmured. “It’d be a kindness to kill him.”

“Yeah, but then I think, maybe he doesn’t deserve that release. We have to live with what his people did for the rest of our lives.”

She looked at him then, her gaze suddenly sharp. “ _If_ he’s the Cardinal. If he’s not, then that excuse goes out to the stars. If the government want to imprison him for life, then they should do that, but _after_ a fair trial.”

Exactly what he believed. “Yes.”

“I guess this makes it easier to be kind to him,” she said.

“If he even comes back. I like your apartment.”

“Thanks. Once you finish your probation, you can put your name down for one, if you like.”

“I might do that. You live alone?”

She dimpled at him. “So subtle, Charles. Yes, quite alone. My only domestic partnership was dissolved some time ago. He didn’t live up to the promise. _Most_ men don’t.”

The challenge in her eyes made him flush hot again. “Nice to know there are some who do.”

“But how do I find them? That’s the problem. More tea?”

**********************

Constance closed the door behind d’Artagnan with relief. Not because the lad was poor company—he wasn’t, unfortunately for her—but because of what she had learned from him. Her blood had run cold when he’d told her about what was happening to Athos, and if indications were true, they had less time than they thought to free him before the torture inevitably made him spill their secrets.

She sent a message to the third party they used to set up secure communications with each other, and shortly after received a call from the callsign she knew Treville would be using. “What’s happening?” her boss asked, brief and to the point as always.

“He’s being removed periodically from focus, and returned in poor condition. The drugs he’s on are making him confused and he’s also being weakened by the way they’re restraining him. At least, that’s how it looks to an unqualified observer.”

“Shit. Are you making contact with the target again?”

“Yes, but I can’t move too fast. He’s already suspicious we’re being too nice to him out of duty.”

“You are, but not how he thinks. Is A in focus now?”

“No. I’ll tell our doc when he returns.”

“The doc needs to make some excuse to get in there. Fake up a new drug protocol, anything. We need to know what medications A is on.”

“Understood. Um, the target seems sympathetic, but I don’t think he’s there yet.”

“Keep working on him. The doc might have to go with the alternate plan if we can’t get the target’s cooperation soon. We don’t have much time.”

“I know. P and R have made contact too, and the impression is good. I’ll tell them to pursue further.”

“Do that. Good luck.”

And with that, the call was over. Constance shivered. The alternate plan was much more likely to expose Lemay, and, at the very least, mean Athos was moved who knew where. If d’Artagnan would cooperate, they could get Athos out, leave Lemay in position—her too—and no one would realise what had happened.

 _Hold on, Athos_.

**********************

It was a source of almost unendurable frustration for Lemay to know that the information he needed was literally at his fingertips, but he couldn’t access it without being asked awkward questions which endangered the entire plan to rescue their imprisoned agent. So instead of just calling up Prisoner A’s treatment details, he was forced to wait until he was physically on the ward, holding paper records, before he could sneak a look at the information he needed.

Unfortunately, none of the inmates on the ward were acute. All of them were simply old, with the chronic diseases that came with age and a life badly lived. Ironically, such individuals were of considerable interest of gerontologists since men of similar ages were usually fit and well for at least another decade before the weight of accumulated cell damage brought inevitable senescence and death. These prisoners were anomalous, and their premature decay studied for any new causes other than the known factors.

But their value to science was of no interest to Lemay. They were simply excuses to get near a man a good forty or fifty years their junior, but with possibly a far shorter life expectancy than any of them, at least if he couldn’t be freed.

At last, they had a stroke of luck in the form of a literal stroke. One of the prisoners woke with the classic symptoms of a transient ischaemic attack, which allowed Lemay to go in, order the usual precautionary medication and the diagnostic tests, and quickly scan the medical notes for Prisoner A in the nursing station.

No chance to actually see the prisoner, although Lemay did see the young man Constance had indicated was their best hope for executing the safest plan for rescue. He didn’t speak to this d’Artagnan, but it was good to put a face to the name.

His report to Treville was not going to make the old man happy. “They’re dosing him with stuff that is both dangerous and powerful,” Lemay told him. “Since we know A isn’t suffering from the things the drugs are designed to treat, the only purpose can be to sedate and confuse him. And, one assumes, to break down his resistance to questioning. In the long term, they’ll also kill him, but I doubt that’s the goal.”

“Not at the moment, at least,” Treville said. “Can we go forward?”

“At this point the chance of the plan ending in A’s death are at least fifty percent.”

Treville hissed in a breath. “Can you reduce that?”

“I’ll certainly try. But there’s one thing in our favour. The records indicate that fifteen hours before each removal from focus, A’s medication regime is changed to placebo.”

“Why?”

“My guess is that whatever they’re doing to him requires him to be moderately alert. Using dummy medication means no one is alerted to the upcoming removal, including A himself.”

“Go on.”

“From what the target described, A’s condition on return to focus sounds to me like he’s suffering from the side effects of their interrogation. He’s not been given his usual medication for several hours after his return. They wait until the normal timing for the dosing to restart. That gives us a window, but I need to know when he’s removed again. The target’s cooperation is essential.”

“Understood.”

“Will we proceed if we can’t move at the optimum time, if we have his cooperation?”

“We’re going to move with or without it, optimum or non-optimum. I want A out of there yesterday.”

“Even if we have to kill him to achieve that?”

A long pause. “Even if. For now, continue gathering information. We’ll do the same. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lemay needed a drink after that conversation. Killing, even for mercy, was never lightly done by any decent physician, and he considered himself a decent man.

On the other hand, some doctor somewhere had callously prescribed powerful, harmful medication for a man who didn’t need them, pure for the purposes of restraint and interrogation. And that was before Lemay considered what was possibly being done with drugs and medicine while Prisoner A was out of the prisoner wing.

He didn’t know who this man was, or his relationship to Treville. But simple mercy demanded that Lemay help release him, even to death. So that was what he would do.

**********************

D’Artagnan saw Prisoner A being brought back to the ward this time, instead of only being told to attend to him after he was settled, and he found it difficult to keep quiet about how disturbing he found it. The man was nude—revealing his emaciated condition even more clearly than usual—and shaking like a blade of grass in a high wind. The attendants, whom d’Artagnan didn’t recognise from around the hospital, dumped the prisoner in the bed, and d’Artagnan was told to help them put his gown on and then reattach the shackles. The entire time Prisoner A shook and cried for someone called Anne, in amongst pained sounds and groans that were more like an animal’s than a human’s.

The attendants left, and d’Artagnan couldn’t refrain from touching the man’s shoulder, which only made him jerk. “Settle down, you’re okay.”

The man suddenly stilled as if d’Artagnan’s words had had an effect, but then he jerked again, arched his back, and began to froth at the mouth and drum his heels against the bed. D’Artagnan realised this wasn’t the usual reaction to his return from wherever it had been. He bolted out of the room. “Nurse! Someone help!”

Lavalle and the nurse, Maillet, came running, while d’Artagnan could only stand to the side and watch. The fit didn’t last that long but clearly worried the nurses. Not long after Dr Lemay rushed in and examined the prisoner. He ordered Lavalle to restart medication immediately, and waited while d’Artagnan administered it through the prisoner’s chest port.

“Barbaric,” Lemay muttered while they watched to see if another fit would occur. “Absolutely inhuman.”

“Sir?” d’Artagnan said.

“I wouldn’t keep a dog like this. What’s the point of such cruelty?” The doctor did another check, then walked out without another word.

D’Artagnan agreed, but what could he do about it? When he saw Kylian and Damien at lunch, he asked them. “Nothin’,” Kylian said bluntly. “Unless you want to lose your job.”

“I’m afraid my dear friend is right,” Damien said, “ghastly though it seems.”

“They never asked me if I was okay with torture when I was hired,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“Well, no. They can’t. Like they can’t sack you for reporting what’s going on. But being a probationer, they can invent anything they like to get rid of you, and make sure you won’t work again in this city.”

D’Artagnan made a face. “Great. Meanwhile I have to watch while a man is being killed slowly for someone’s amusement. Don’t tell me they don’t already know everything they can find out from him. Three times, they’ve done this.”

“More, maybe,” Kylian said. “Cos you don’t know where he was before this, right?”

“No. If he’s the Cardinal, what more do they need to know? Just announce they’ve got him and boom, the CounterReformationists will probably disappear.”

“So you’d think,” Damien said slowly. “Maybe you should put a pillow over his head.”

“I would if I could. I’m still too scared of being prosecuted. Maybe I should just quit.”

“But then someone not as kind as you might get the job afterwards and that could be worse.”

“I don’t think he knows I’m there.”

“Bet he does,” Kylian said. “Anyways, a kind person looking after you has to be better than an arsehole doing it.”

“Or maybe it makes it worse,” d’Artagnan said. “It was so much simpler being a farmer.”

“What would your father tell you to do?” Damien asked, a sudden glint in his usually smiling brown eyes.

“He’d be disgusted I’ve put up with this for so long. But whether I should stay or not, I don’t know. I don’t even know this guy is really the Cardinal. Could be just some poor sod who they think is the Cardinal. Or a foot soldier. Or someone unconnected with the whole thing.” D’Artagnan pushed his hair back with his hands in frustration. “Treating anyone like this makes the government worse than the CounterReformationists. We’re supposed to be the good guys.”

“Yes, so they tell me.” Damien patted his shoulder. “I wish I had an answer for you, my friend. Working with dirty sheets is much easier on the ethics.”

“Yeah, lucky you.”

D’Artagnan had another date—because he could no longer pretend there wasn’t more to their friendly interactions—with Constance that evening. She kissed his cheek when he arrived. “Uh oh. Another bad day?”

He pulled away from her hug. “Yeah. Constance, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Seeing me?”

“No, working at the hospital. In the prison wing.”

She took his hand and led him over to the sofa to sit. “What happened?”

He told her about Prisoner A’s fit and what the doctor had said. “It’s revolting. And he’s right. It’s cruel.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, her pretty eyes soft and sympathetic. “What can you do though?”

“Put a pillow over his face?”

She shook her head. “No, don’t do that. It’s not right and if you didn’t do a good job, you’d just torment him more.”

“Then I should just quit.”

“Don’t do that either. At least, let me see if I can transfer you.”

“It’s the coward’s way out though, isn’t it? He’ll still be tortured, only I won’t have to see it.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Maybe the next time they take him away, they’ll screw up and he’ll die.”

She swallowed as if the idea made her sick. “No one should have to go through this. I know what the Cardinal did to your father—”

“But we don’t even know if that’s who this is!” He clenched his hands into fists. “And does it make any difference if he is?”

“Well, does it?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” he admitted. “My father would be ashamed of me if I believed it did. He lived his life to a higher standard, and I don’t want to be the d’Artagnan who drags our family name into the shit because I’m not as good a man as he was.”

“Give me a few days,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “But if you come up with any ideas, let me know. Please don’t just walk out. Promise me you won’t.”

“Okay.” He held her hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said and she smiled.

**********************

Constance’s communicator trilled half an hour after d’Artagnan left her apartment. “Boss?”

“The doc saw A today,” Treville said. “He says we can’t wait for the best time to go ahead. A is at too much risk.”

“The target is ready to help now, I’m sure of it.”

“Good. The doc has tweaked the drug he needs and says it’s as good as he can make it. Once the target agrees, all he needs to do is agree the timing.”

“We have to move fast. The target is talking about quitting.”

“Approach him as soon as you can. We’re ready to move.”

“Understood.”

“Good work.”

Constance didn’t agree, much as she wanted to free Athos. Deceiving a good man like d’Artagnan didn’t sit right with her, however just the cause. But a spy didn’t have the luxury of morals or ethics. Treville had told her that more than once.

**********************

Constance messaged d’Artagnan the next morning, to his surprise, and asked him to come out to lunch with her. She would bring a picnic for them to eat in the little park. He happily agreed, not just for her, but for the pleasure of getting out of the hospital building.

Her usual bright smile was dim though. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

She looked at him with tears on her lashes. “No, something right,” she said, voice trembling. He took her hand and held it. “I contacted that doctor. You know, Doctor Lemay?” He nodded. “He confirmed everything you’ve said, and more. It’s...oh, Charles, it’s awful what he says they’re doing. Those drugs _are_ killing him, slowly and nastily.”

“I was afraid they were. But how does this help?”

She leaned in. “Promise me you won’t tell a soul, and you won’t report either of us.”

“For what?”

“Promise me, Charles, or I can’t tell you.”

“Of course I promise, unless you’re planning to murder—” She froze and his eyes widened in shock. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Promise me.”

“I do. I swear, I would never hurt you.”

She looked down. “Lemay says he knows a drug that will kill that prisoner instantly, painlessly, and untraceably. You don’t even need to inject it properly. Just prick the skin with a tiny drop, it’s that powerful.”

“Fuck. Seriously?”

“A man’s life’s at stake, Charles. Would I joke about this?”

He clutched at her hands as she tried to pull away. “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I’m just...shocked.”

“Me too. But he says if you can administer it, he can certify death, make sure you’re not a suspect, and then this poor man’s misery is over. His god can punish him if that’s what he believes.”

‘God’. Funnily enough, it was one word d’Artagnan had never heard the man utter. “Okay.”

“You want to do this? It’s entirely your choice. Lemay says if you don’t, he’ll risk giving it to the man next time he’s called to him but he has no idea when that might be. You could do this tomorrow.”

D’Artagnan blew out a breath. “Yeah,” he said, even though a distant idea had suddenly become harsh, cold reality. “It’s not right, Constance.”

“No, it’s not. You’d be doing the merciful thing. Your father would be proud of you.”

“I hope so. When will he give it to me?”

“When do you give the prisoner a full shower?”

“Um, tomorrow morning.”

“Then he’ll give it to you before that. Come back here for your afternoon break. What time is that?”

“Three fifteen.”

“He’ll be there.” She kissed his cheek, and said in a wobbly voice, “You’re such a good man. I’m proud of you too.”

D’Artagnan smiled, glad to be seen as a hero in her eyes, but his heart thumped hard at what he’d just agreed to. When he returned to the ward, the enormity of the deed made it hard to think of anything else, and he almost changed his mind, until he had to give Prisoner A his afternoon dose of ‘medicine’. Seeing the pitiful creature, listening to his weak, desperate babbling, firmed up his determination. “Not much longer,” he murmured to the man.

No reaction. Just as well. In less than a day, with luck, both of them would be freed from this revolting situation, and they could both have some peace.

Doctor Lemay was waiting for him when he came out of the hospital and crossed the road. “Are you sure you know what you’re agreeing to do, d’Artagnan?”

“Yes. Kill a man to end his suffering. I’m not a child, doctor.”

“Good.” Lemay passed him a small pouch. “In there are three dummy injectors, and two real ones. Practice what you need to do with the dummy ones, please.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Sorry, just a little nervous about this.”

He produced a small flexible bladder with a little needle in the middle, and showed him how the cap over the needle broke off. “Hold it between your fingers to hide it like this. Or you can just pinch it, if you’re alone with him. So long as you break the skin and inject a tiny amount, it’ll work. The practice is to make sure you can do it without getting any of it on yourself. There’s distilled water in there to use while you learn.”

“And afterwards?”

“Drop it in the drain or the toilet. Be careful though. It will work almost instantaneously, so make sure he’s propped up not to fall on you.”

“And he won’t suffer.”

“Not for a second. He’ll have a powerful heart attack and die. Pain over. Cruelty over.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “You could report what’s going on. Why don’t you?”

“Because they’ll just move him. If they do that, I can do nothing to stop further abuse. Thousands of years ago, a man called Hippocrates came up with an [oath for physicians](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hippocratic_Oath). Have you heard of it?”

“No,” d’Artagnan admitted.

“Not surprising. It’s not often used now. It boils down to this primary duty for doctors— do no harm. The doctors who prescribed what that prisoner is being forced to take, are doing harm. I’m going to stop them doing that.”

“By killing him.”

Lemay sighed. “Yes. But I took a different oath—the [Declaration of Geneva](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Declaration_of_Geneva), which is also very old. I swore not to use my medical knowledge to violate human rights and civil liberties, and I also swore to practise my profession with conscience and dignity. I believe what I am doing is just that. Do you agree?”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan had thought about it all night, and for weeks now. “The only other solution means turning our backs on him, and that’s wrong.”

“Yes.” Lemay clasped his shoulder. “You are a good and moral man, Charles d’Artagnan. I’m honoured to know you.”

“Thank you. So I’ll see you in the morning, I guess.”

“Time?”

“Around ten.”

“Then I’ll make sure I’m around until I hear from you. Good luck.”

**********************

D’Artagnan had almost no sleep that night. He’d practiced with the dummy injectors for hours—glad that the real ones were carefully and overcautiously labelled at multiple points—and rehearsed in his mind the different scenarios under which he could administer the lethal drug. He had no qualms any longer about the fact a man would be dead by the end of it. All he could think of was that the loathsome torture would be over and the spirit of the law would be upheld even in the breaking of it. But he didn’t want to make the prisoner suffer or be caught trying.

Pascal noticed he wasn’t eating much at breakfast. “Are you sick?”

“No. Just a bad night, you know.”

Pascal nodded, even though d’Artagnan doubted the man had ever been disturbed by such troublesome thoughts. “Days off are coming. Got any plans?”

“Might see Constance, I suppose.”

Pascal nudged him. “Landed on your feet there, didn’t you?”

“She’s a friend, Pascal,” he insisted but Pascal kept up the winks and nudges until the meal was over. Moving to another position might be a good idea anyway, once this was all over.

D’Artagnan was afraid Lavalle would suddenly change the duty plan or throw something into the routine to prevent the scheme going ahead, but all was normal, almost boringly so. He was especially careful and gentle with Prisoner A as he disconnected the catheter, and helped him out of the bed and into the wheelchair to take him to the shower room. The man’s head lolled, though the stream of gibberish continued, and drool clung to his beard again. D’Artagnan was glad of this. He would have hated for the man to realise he was about to die, even if he would be glad to do so. No one wanted to know the time of their death.

He took the prisoner into the shower room and moved him onto the chair. The man shivered in the cool air when d’Artagnan removed the hospital gown, but tilted his head up towards the shower head from where he knew warm water would come. D’Artagnan turned the water on and let him enjoy it. He would inject him like this, while he was warm and comfortable and relaxed. Let him have a few moments of pleasure.

Lemay’s warning was well-advised, because the prisoner slumped barely a heartbeat after d’Artagnan pricked him on the neck with the drug, and he had to quickly catch him before he fell off the chair. D’Artagnan dropped the injector down the drain with one hand and made sure it was washed away, before turning off the water, yelling for help, and pressing the red alarm button.

Maillet ran in and helped d’Artagnan lay the prisoner on the floor. The ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order that was standard for all patients in the hospital wing meant there was no attempt at CPR, but the nurse called for a doctor as was protocol.

Lemay appeared, giving no sign of recognition to D’Artagnan, knelt by the prisoner and listened for a heartbeat and breathing, checked the eyelids, then shook his head. “Gone. Heart attack, most likely. Hardly surprising.”

He spoke to Lavalle outside the shower room and returned. “Right. I’ll certify death. No need for an autopsy, according to the instructions on the file. Just send the body off to the mortuary.”

Maillet reacted with no surprise at all, as d’Artagnan expected. There had been two deaths on the ward since he started, and the procedure for disposing of the dead was straightforward—remove all medical devices, read the ID chip, then take the body for recycling.

“Do you want me to deal with that?” d’Artagnan asked.

“May as well. Let’s get him up onto a gurney. Pascal!”

D’Artagnan had lifted children heavier than this man felt to him in death. The nurse read the ID chip, and removed the tubes and ports. “All yours,” he said to d’Artagnan.

“Want me to do it for you?” Pascal asked.

“No, I’m fine,” d’Artagnan said. He owed the man this last service, he felt. “I won’t be long.”

“I’m going that way,” Doctor Lemay said. “I’ll follow you out.”

D’Artagnan hadn’t expected this, but it gave him the opportunity to slip the pouch with the remaining, deadly injector back to the doctor in the elevator. “I don’t want to know how you got this,” he said.

“I don’t want you to know,” Lemay said without a trace of humour. He looked down at the sheet-covered body. “Rest in peace, whoever the hell you are.”

**********************

Lemay slapped d’Artagnan with the injector as soon as they walked through the mortuary doors, catching the man before he could crash to the ground. “Hurry,” he snapped at the two agents Treville had put into position. “Poupart, help me.”

Poupart put d’Artagnan into a chair at a desk and made sure he wouldn’t fall out of it. The agents had put an oxygen mask on Prisoner A while Lemay was busy injecting him with the antidote to the drug d’Artagnan had given him, and then checking the vitals.

The two agents watched him, biting their lips with ill-concealed anxiety. “Anything?” the dark-skinned one asked.

“Wait. Yes, there’s the heartbeat. Be gentle handling him. He’s not out of danger by a very long way.”

“We’ll be careful. Help us, will you?” the other agent said. The plan was to load the prisoner into a small box and into Poupart, the mortician’s, little supply vehicle. Then the man would be taken to safety and, Lemay hoped, competent medical care, because his role was now over—at least for now.

The prisoner was laid down with exquisite care by the agents—whom Lemay suspected knew him personally—and the box put on a trolley by Poupart to take to the vehicle. “What about him?” the paler agent asked, cocking his head towards d’Artagnan.

“He’ll be fine. He’ll be awake shortly, and have no memory of any of this. Just go, will you? This one doesn’t have much time.”

The man ran after Poupart. The dark-skinned agent remained. “You better scoot too,” he said to Lemay. “I’ve got this. Good work, doctor.”

“You too. Good luck.”

**********************

D’Artagnan woke with a jerk, his head pounding. What the fuck...?

“Careful, mate,” someone said. “Are you sure he didn’t hit his head?”

“No, I caught him before he did,” another voice said.

D’Artagnan risked opening an eye. “Kylian? What are you doing here?” He tried to sit up but a wave of dizziness came over him.

“Easy,” the other person said. D’Artagnan now recognised him as Poupart, the mortician.

“What happened?”

“No idea,” Poupart said cheerfully. “You came in with a body from upstairs. I was dealing with this one,” he waved his hand towards the preparation table, “you took one look and went down like a failed rocket. Fortunately young Kylian was here bringing me clean covers, and helped me get you into a chair. Don’t like the sight of blood?”

“No, I’m fine.” But then he glanced over and saw the body Poupart was talking about, and thought it was just possible he had fainted. _Yuck_. “Where’s the body I brought down?”

“Over there,” Poupart said, pointing to the gurney, then put his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to stop him getting up. “You leave that to me. Kylian, he could do with some fresh air and something sweet to drink, if you ask me.”

“Dunno if your advice is worth anything. Don’t you only deal with dead people?”

“Get along with you and your cheek,” Poupart said, frowning at Kylian.

“Are you all right to stand?” Kylian asked, getting his hands under d’Artagnan’s arms.

“I think so.” The floor moved up and down. “Whoa.”

“Want to sit again?”

“No, get me out of here.”

With Kylian’s help, d’Artagnan made it up to ground level, and the fresh air did help. “You wait there and I’ll bring you some tea.”

D’Artagnan nodded and was somewhat surprised to find his head didn’t fall off when he did. It probably wasn’t the mutilated corpse Poupart was working on that made him faint, but relief that the secret plan to free Prisoner A had worked.

It _had_ worked. And now d’Artagnan didn’t have to wrestle with his conscience every day when he went to work. Despite the queasiness from his faint, he felt much happier and lighter than he had done in many days.

Kylian returned with the drink. D’Artagnan drank it gratefully. “Feeling better?”

“Yes. Thank you. Why were you down there? I thought it was your day off.”

“Overtime. Poupart told you—I was just delivering clean covers. You know, for the bodies. Why were you down there?”

“Delivering a dead man. That prisoner. The maybe cardinal.”

Kylian’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah? And after all that agonising of yours. I guess his god took him away after all.”

No god had done it, d’Artagnan thought. “Maybe. Anyway, it’s all over.”

“Still thinking of moving on?”

“Maybe. Not so urgently now, I guess.”

“No, suppose not. If you’re feeling all right, I gotta get back to work.”

“Go, I’m fine. I’ll make sure I don’t move until I won’t pass out again.”

“See you at lunch, maybe.”

D’Artagnan waved him off. He should really get back to work too but he could explain himself to Lavalle. If not, then he’d just quit. Suddenly, he no longer felt so anxious about his job security. He had done something that morning that made a difference, and knowing he had risen to the challenge, made him realise he could rise again to others. strange, and a little creepy that killing a man could give him confidence, but he didn’t see it as a killing. More a way of honouring his father’s principles, and abiding by his own belief in human decency. Like Lemay had, he supposed.

He put the tea cup into the composting box. Now it and Prisoner A and his father would all share a common resting place.

Life was definitely very strange.

**********************

“Careful with him,” Treville ordered as Aramis and Doctor Boden lifted Athos out of the crate in which he’d been transported to Ninon’s mansion. Aramis and the doctor put Athos on a gurney, then the doctor checked him carefully. “Breathing okay, heart okay,” Boden confirmed.

“Let’s get him upstairs and somewhere warm,” Treville said. “Can we take those things off his eyes?”

Boden nodded, so Aramis gently removed the dressings covering Athos’s eyes. It was the first sight Treville had had of his friend in two months, and the deterioration in the once handsome face shocked him. “Good grief,” he muttered. Aramis grimaced in sympathy.

Ninon waited for them at the elevator and pressed the button to take them all to the upper storey where a room had been prepared for Athos to recover in privacy and safety. She looked down at Athos. “Oh no. What did they do to him?” she asked, lifting her eyes to Treville’s.

“We only know half of it, but what we know is bad enough. He’s going to be here a long time.”

She bent to kiss her old friend’s forehead. “As long as it takes. Poor sod.” She stroked his hair, and supervised the careful transfer of Athos to the bed from the gurney, drawing the covers up around him herself.

“Are we going to keep him naked?” Aramis asked.

“Until I have a chance to check for bedsores and other insults, yes,” Doctor Boden said, giving Aramis a quelling look. “Now, allow me to do that, please. Lisette, start that IV we discussed. Make sure it’s warm.”

A busy man like Treville had to work hard to win a completely clear day, but he had managed it for Athos. He and Aramis and Ninon kept a vigil all day as Boden and Lisette, his nurse, treated Athos for the effects of the medication he had been given, and eased the withdrawal symptoms from it leaving his body. Ninon insisted on cutting the awful beard, and putting moisturiser on cracked lips and abused eyes. It improved Athos’s appearance but not his condition. Only time and care would do that.

It wasn’t until after dark that Athos’s eyes fluttered open, although only to slits. Treville immediately went to his side and took his hand. “You’re safe, Athos. It’s Jean-Armand. It’s over. You’re safe.”

“It’ll be a while longer before he’s able to comprehend fully,” Doctor Boden warned.

“Can he eat? He’s so thin.”

“When he’s a little more conscious, yes. We need to be careful, if he’s been on a gastric tube. We don’t want to give him bellyache or worse on top of the rest of it. Madame de Larroque, you have soup ready as we discussed.”

“Litres and litres of it,” she said. “Jean? Are you going to stay?”

“As long as I can, Ninon.”

“Nino’?” Athos’s voice was so weak, Treville would have missed it if he’d been ten centimetres further away from him.

“She’s here, Athos. Ninon and Aramis both.”

“‘mis.”

Aramis moved to the bed and touched Athos’s foot. “Here, my friend.”

Athos reached for him and Aramis took his hand. “‘mis.”

“It’s me. You’re safe. It’s over. You’re at Ninon’s house. No one will hurt you again.”

Treville thought his heart would break when tears began to trickle down Athos’s face. Ninon, her own eyes wet and red, gently wiped them away. “We’re here, darling. All you have to do is rest and get well.”

**********************

Aramis had three days off from his ‘job’, and he intended to spend all of them at Athos’s side. Porthos joined him on the second day, when Treville had to go back to his office, and together they watched, and comforted, and talked to Athos. There were long periods of confusion, then startling alertness when Athos realised he could both see and move his hands freely. He was even allowed to piss without a catheter, though one of them had to help him stand. He didn’t say much, but then Athos never had been much of a talker.

Ninon refused to let Lisette or Boden feed their friend. The moment the doctor decreed they could try Athos with a few sips of water, she was there, holding the glass to his lips while Aramis helped him sit up. As he swallowed, Athos gave them the first smile he’d shown since he had been liberated from the hospital.

“Good?” Porthos asked.

“Perfect,” Athos murmured. “More.”

The saline IV would stay for a couple more days until Athos was taking in enough fluids to keep Doctor Boden happy, but once he began to drink, both soup and water, his condition improved quite rapidly, and his periods of lucidity lengthened.

None of them asked him what had happened, nor what he’d revealed under questioning. Aramis was no more eager than the rest of them to bring those horrors back to his mind, and Athos in no hurry to encourage them. Instead, they encouraged his healing, giving him nice pajamas to wear, warm blankets around him, soft cushions at his back. He wanted to sit near a window to see the sun, something Aramis suspected he’d been without for months. And all the time, they stayed by him, reminding he was safe and away from the prison of mind and body.

When Aramis and Porthos had to return to their cover jobs, Constance took their place. In the evening, the two men returned to the mansion. Treville was already there. Athos had moved to an armchair, propped up by fluffy pillows, and free from the IV at last. Boden and Lisette were nowhere to be seen, though Aramis doubted they were far away.

“Now that’s an improvement,” Aramis said, kissing his head and giving him a careful hug around the shoulders. Porthos did the same, and won a smile. “How do you feel, my friend?”

“Old,” Athos whispered. Constance had hold of his right hand, Ninon his left. Aramis would have clasped a foot but Athos would have died of embarrassment if he had, so he didn’t.

Treville cleared his throat. “Athos was just telling us how he was taken. His ex was behind it.”

“Bitch,” Ninon spat.

“Yes,” Treville agreed.

“I didn’t know she was back on the planet,” Aramis said.

“None of us did. Athos didn’t, certainly. She’s had surgery done, her appearance altered. She took him by surprise.”

“And that means she’s working for du Plessis,” Constance said.

“How did she know Athos was working for you?” Porthos asked. “Last time she was around, Athos was out of the public service, nothing to do with you professionally.”

“I don’t know,” Treville said, glancing at Athos who frowned. “Another mystery. But that’s not the important part of what we’ve learned from Athos. Athos’s ex was directly involved in the attack on the Prime Minister, and du Plessis the one who ordered it.”

“Anne D'España? Why?” Aramis exclaimed. “What possible good would killing her do?”

“It would weaken the president’s support, embolden the dissidents.”

“Athos, are you sure?”

Athos nodded. “The Musketeers are getting too close,” he murmured. “They hammered me for...weeks, I suppose. Wanting to know who Treville was, who else was involved.” He coughed and Treville handed him a glass of water, which he drank from deeply. “Sorry. Throat’s sore.” Constance patted his hand and took the empty glass from him. “They got nothing from me.”

Aramis boggled. “My friend, you were questioned for weeks. I love you like a brother but no one endures that long.”

“Turns out they weren’t able to match the miseries of my own memories. I let myself wallow.”

Aramis didn’t want to call his friend a liar, but was this even possible? He looked at Treville, who said, “If du Plessis knew who I was, I would be compost. So would you and Porthos.”

“Yes, that’s true. I wish you hadn’t had to—”

Athos raised a hand. “Can we not?”

“Of course.”

“The long and short of it was that while they did their best to scramble my brains, my brains were prescrambled, and I’ve had long practice at handling that. Not that I’m not glad to not have to, anymore.”

“So what’s next?” Porthos asked.

“Speak to the Prime Minister. Then we can decide what to do. In the meantime, Athos is going to stay dead, and get well.” Athos gave them all a little smirk for that.

“As a corpse, he looks pretty good,” Porthos said, grinning at their friend.

“A sight for sore eyes,” Constance said.

Their ‘sight’ dozed off not long after that, and once Ninon realised he was out for the count, she asked the men to lift Athos from the chair to the bed. Treville insisted on remaining with him while the others had their supper downstairs, so Ninon had a tray taken up to him.

Aramis sat next to Constance. “What of our young refugee? Is he coping?”

“Yes, amazingly well,” she said. “Of course, I’ll have to break his heart now.”

“Just _his_ heart?” Aramis said, teasing.

“Be quiet, you,” she said, while Porthos grinned. “You two are allowed to leave now, lucky sods. That’ll upset d’Artagnan too.”

“He’ll survive,” Aramis said callously. “He must be tough to cope with all he’s been through and help us with this as well.”

“Yes, he is. But he’s not hardened. Not like you,” she added in a jab in repayment for his cheekiness. “He hates the job.”

“Maybe the boss can use him.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Not my problem.”

Aramis wasn’t the only callous one, then. But it had been a long two years since the Musketeers had started to fight back against the machinations of the Minister for Security, Armand du Plessis, and his infiltration of the public service. Once Treville had discovered that du Plessis was the feared Cardinal of the CounterReformationists, the battle to root out his influence and corruption had become deadly. Friends and colleagues had been lost.

The battle was not over, let alone won, and the war went on. D’Artagnan had survived. That made him luckier than most. None of them had the energy to spare coddling an innocent bystander.

Shame though. The kid had guts.

**********************

“Minister du Peyrer to see you, Prime Minister,” Anne’s secretary announced.

“Let him come in,” she said, then stood. She held out her hand. “Jean-Armand, how delightful. What brings you to my office this morning?”

“Some confidential information I felt happier about sharing in person,” Jean-Armand said, shaking her hand. “But it’s such a lovely day. Do you fancy a stroll?”

She narrowed her eyes and nodded. “Simone,” she called. “I’ll be out in the gardens for a few minutes with the minister.”

“Very good, madame.”

She stepped out through the doors at the rear of her office and into the enclosed and very secure garden. She wasn’t the least surprised to see Jean-Armand turn on an audio scrambler before he gave her the signal they were safe to speak. “What’s happening, Jean?”

“We know who was behind the attempt to kill you three months ago.”

“Him?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll go to Louis and have him...no?”

“Anne, removing him from office will only make his position in the CounterReformationists stronger, because he won’t have to be circumspect any longer.”

“You can’t expect me to leave the man unchallenged in his spider’s web.”

“No, I don’t. I have a plan which I believe will allow us to oust him and be rid of him, but it depends on a man who is in delicate health at the moment.”

“Is this the gentleman you were so worried about?”

He nodded. “We retrieved him but it will be a couple of weeks before he’s strong enough to execute the scheme. In the meantime, I’m gathering evidence. Now we know who his eminence hired to carry out the attack, we have been able to make connections and identify those involved. All we need to do is pull the strings, and it will all collapse in on itself.”

“Your webs are rather intricate too, minister.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister. I will need your presence once the first part of the plan is executed. Can I count on you?”

“Always, you know that.”

“Thank you. Now I do believe I’ve had enough fresh air for today, and will take my leave.”

“Of course. Jean-Armand, be careful.”

He smiled. “Always. You know that too.”

**********************

As Athos’s strength slowly but surely increased, he began to chafe at the restrictions on him, and frankly, become a pain in Treville’s butt. A beloved pain, but a pain nonetheless. Treville didn’t actually blame his friend for his impatience—Athos’s life had been on hold ever since he’d been kidnapped in broad daylight and held quite illegally under the most disturbing of conditions—but unless Athos was up to the confrontation to come, the impact would be lost.

“I can handle it,” Athos insisted, more than once.

“No, you can’t,” Treville replied every time. “She turned you into an alcoholic wreck when she betrayed you and killed Thomas.”

“And I got over it.”

“Athos, you just told me, all of us, that your misery over what she did was strong enough to help you resist weeks of torture. That doesn’t sound like you’re over it to me.”

“I stopped drinking, didn’t I?”

Treville gave him that much. “I know,” he said as kindly as he could. “But we’re not in that much of a hurry. Boden and Lemay are both worried about your heart. I just want you to be stronger, healthier, happier before I put you through this.”

“Happier isn’t likely,” Athos snapped. “I mean, considering the torture-resistant misery.”

Ninon patted his hand and laid her head on his shoulder. “You’re already better, darling. Listen to him. He loves you and so do I.”

“And while I loll about in bed, people are dying.”

“Not because of you,” Treville said. “Please. Two weeks.”

“One.”

“Two. This isn’t up for negotiation. Ninon, I’m relying on you to sit on him.”

She fluttered her eyelids at him. “Why, Jean-Armand, it would be nothing but my pleasure.” Even Athos had to laugh at that, and when she kissed his cheek and hugged him, the argument was over.

Until the next time Treville came to see how he was. He was beginning to understand how, exactly, Athos withstood the torture inflicted on him, because he was, without doubt, the stubbornest and most unreasonable son of a bitch this side of the galaxy.

It had kept him alive. It also might just drive Treville to murder him.

Finally the day came when the cautious and immovable Hubert Boden agreed Athos was fit enough to withstand a period of sustained stress— _if_ he allowed his friends to help him through the aftermath and he took appropriate rest.

“Bring her in,” Athos said.

“I intend to,” Treville said.

He had Aramis and Porthos pick up Anne de Breuil from outside her apartment and bring her to Ninon’s mansion while blindfolded and cuffed. He hoped, rather meanly, it gave her a small taste of what she’d put her former lover through, but the important thing was that she didn’t know where she was.

Ninon had a store room in her basement where Treville had set up chair and tables for their ‘guest’. Aramis and Porthos dragged her in and left her, still bound and blind in the chair. Treville gave it a couple of minutes before he spoke, hoping to unsettle her, and ignored her demands to know who was in the room.

“Anne de Breuil,” he said at last, making her flinch. “Also known as Anne de Winter, Clarissa de Winter, and ‘Milady’. And Anne de la Fére, too, which is a bit cheeky of you, considering what you did to two men of that surname.”

“Who are you?”

“I believe I’m asking the questions, madame. You work for the Minister for Security, do you not?”

“No, I don’t. I own a dress shop.”

“Please don’t waste my time with lies, madame. Do you work for Armand du Plessis?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions, whoever you are.”

“Did you arrange an attack on the Prime Minister four months ago?”

She went still and didn’t answer.

“Did you arrange the kidnapping of your former partner, Olivier de la Fére, from his gallery?”

“I’m not going to answer. You’re wasting your time.”

“No, actually, I’m enjoying being a pain in the arse. Someone of our mutual acquaintance has been teaching me how recently. I don’t care if you don’t answer. You see, I know the names of the people you hired to kill the Prime minister, where they are now, and how much they were paid. I know who pays you. I know you killed Thomas de la Fére and duped his innocent brother into covering your thefts and smuggling, forcing him to resign from his position, six years ago and that was why you had to leave La France Renaît in a hurry. I know you have an extensive criminal history on three planets, and that you have long prison sentences awaiting you on all of them, including this one.”

He leaned on the table and the shift in the position of his voice made her jump. “Do you want to know how I know all this, madame?”

“You know nothing.”

“Do I? DNA tracking will most certainly link your current identity with those others, and when I present the evidence I have, the president will most likely have you shipped off this planet and to whichever one offers the most unpleasant future for you. That’s if Armand du Plessis doesn’t have you quietly killed. That _is_ his style.”

“You have no _proof_ ,” she spat.

“Don’t I? Ask how I know all this?”

“I don’t care.”

“Funny, that’s what my source said about you. Olivier de la Fére told me all this.”

She began to struggle against the restraints. “Olivier is _dead!_ ”

“Yes, so I heard. Tragic, really. Such a promising young man, whose career and happiness you ruined. I wonder what he’d say about you now.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” she sneered.

“What a good idea,” Treville said, never dreaming she would give him such an opening. “Olivier, what do you say?”

Athos, who’d been sitting in the corner, silent as a statue, lifted an eyebrow. “I’d say that Anne de Breuil is a conniving, amoral, thieving, murderous, and entirely worthless and faithless _bitch,_ and I hope she rots in prison for a very long time when we’re done with her.”

The woman had gone rigid at the first sound of his voice. Treville whipped off the blindfold so she was facing Athos when she could see again. “Surprise,” Athos said drily.

“You fucking bastard.” She spat at him in fury, but her spittle landed nowhere near him.

“Really,” Athos said, apparently unperturbed.

“Charming though this reunion isn’t,” Treville said, “I think madame should understand that we now have solid, irrefutable and _indestructible_ proof of your guilt and that of your master. Even if you have Athos kidnapped again—”

“Please don’t,” Athos murmured.

Treville raised an eyebrow at him. “It won’t make a jot of difference. So, madame whatever you call yourself, you’ll be leaving this planet in only one of two ways—on a prison transport, or as gas from your decomposing corpse.”

“It wasn’t me! He forced me! He found out about my record and made me arrange the attack, the kidnapping. You have to believe me.” Oddly, she seemed to be pleading with Athos rather than Treville. Why she would expect sympathy from that quarter....

“I wouldn’t believe you if you said water was wet,” Athos drawled.

“Please, you have to help me, Olivier. I can’t go to prison. Killing Thomas was an accident. I never meant that to happen.”

“Now _that_ I might believe, if only because it removed an advantage to you,” Athos said. “But I don’t really care. We’re going to throw you at the president and count the number of bits that come back. And I’m going to _enjoy_ watching.”

She had big, green eyes and was used to using them, Treville could tell. She turned them on him now. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me.”

“What I want? I like Olivier’s plan best. The president takes attacks on his best friend and Prime minister rather badly, I’m told. I can’t wait to see what he does to you.”

“Please. I can give evidence against du Plessis. I have the proof of what he asked. I have records of his payments.”

“Tell me more,” Treville said.

“I can prove he runs the Catholic militants. He’s in charge. He gives the orders. I have details, dates, names.”

Treville looked at Athos. “What do you think?”

Athos flapped a hand. “Oh, let her talk. See if what she can give you is worth more than dry spit. Personally, I doubt it. She lies like she breathes.”

“I’m not lying!”

Treville sat on the edge of the table. “Then start talking. Now.”

**********************

After de Breuil had spilled her guts, Treville had her bound and blindfolded again, and then moved to a small room that would act as a cell. Athos had warned them in advance to search her thoroughly, and keep a guard on the door—preferably one uninterested in women.

Treville put Aramis and Porthos on the door. Both of them _were_ interested in women, but considerably more interested in each other, and furthermore, knew what this woman had done to their friend. He could trust them.

Constance and Ninon collected Athos from the basement and sat with him in his room while he drank tea and shook and did his best to process what he had seen and heard, and the effect of being in the presence of the woman who had destroyed his life and career. When Treville returned, Athos was still shaking, but there were a couple of smiles there too. He’d be all right, Treville judged.

“Well?” he asked.

“We have enough to nail him,” Athos said. “Can you make the nail stay in the cross though?”

“Leave that to me. And I’m sorry, by the way. That was nastier than anything I’d imagined.”

Athos grimaced. “Now you know why the torturers were up against it. Having her voice in my head again is worse than anything they put me through.” Ninon stroked his hair after that.

“For what it’s worth, I will make sure she never comes anywhere near you again, under any guise or name. There will be so many flags in her record, she’ll arrested if she crosses the road to buy ice-cream.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Jean.”

“Feel free.”

Now for the Cardinal.

**********************

Aramis had never been to the offices of the Minister of Security. Unsurprising, really, since he was merely a humble nurse, and Armand du Plessis the spawn of hell. Aramis assured himself this was only slightly exaggerated.

But Minister du Peyrer wanted a bodyguard for his meeting with the man, and Aramis was tagged, so he donned his best clothes and turned up on time to walk with Treville to the other office. Porthos was waiting in the wings, so to speak. Aramis had to admire Treville’s flair for theatricality.

“Jean-Armand, a pleasure to see you,” Du Plessis said. “Take a seat.”

Treville did so. Aramis took up a position behind him and was thoroughly ignored. “Thank you, minister. I won’t waste your time with pleasantries. I’m here because I have strong evidence of your involvement in the assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, and of your leadership of the CounterReformation.”

Du Plessis, to his (grudgingly granted) credit, didn’t flinch or blanch or react at all. “Really. That’s a delightful fantasy world you must live in, minister.”

“No fantasy. I have the full details.” Treville drew two sheets of paper from his coat and handed it over.

Du Plessis scanned it, and now his nonchalance was shaken a little. “How very detailed. Worthless, of course.” He tore it up and put it through the little shredder on his desk. “You’d have gone to de Bourbon if you had any proof of this.”

“Oh, I will. You know one of the main witnesses against you, of course. Anne de Breuil? Not sure which name you use for her, but I can’t believe that one doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Sorry, not a tinkle.” Du Plessis smirked. “Is that it, minister?”

“Pretty much. Apart from the documents, records of payments, secret recordings of meetings, and the testimony of the assassins themselves, of course.”

“All false or falsifiable. You’re wasting my time, and beginning to annoy me. I think you should leave now, Minister du Peyrer.”

Aramis couldn’t see Treville’s face, but he was familiar with the slow, low-lidded smile that presaged someone being torn a new arsehole, and knew that was the man’s expression. “You know, Armand, for a man so proud of the prestige of his family’s name and its links to Old France, you’re remarkably ignorant of the importance of other people’s heritage. Did it never occur to you to investigate the background, say, of my surname?”

Du Plessis’s mouth was tight now. “No, I can’t say it did. Please, you need to go now.”

“My family is almost as old as yours, in fact. We go back to fifteenth century France, old Earth calendar. Jean-Armand du Peyrer, Comte de Troisville. Heard of him?”

“No.”

“Oh. Of course you might know him better as the fictional version of him created by Dumas. Monsieur de Tréville—captain of the Musketeers.”

Du Plessis’s face lost all colour. “You!”

“Me.” Aramis could _hear_ the smirk.

“You still have no proof.”

“You keep saying that. But saying that’s true, Armand, I just want to know one thing. _Why_? We have—or had—peace, prosperity. Order. Everything a wealthy man like yourself should value. Yet you delight in promoting and funding a bunch of evil shits who threaten all of that. Don’t tell me it’s for your pathetic religion.”

“Don’t you dare call it that!” du Plessis roared, rising out of his seat. “I am the new Pope! I will drag this godless government, its sinning, disgraceful population to the Lord Christ if I have to kill every heathen, atheist bastard one of you to do it!”

“Killing people to save them,” Aramis said. “Now that’s a new one.”

Treville turned around to glare at him. Aramis shrugged. “So you admit it’s true.”

“So what if I do?” du Plessis sneered. “Who are you going to call as your witness to my confession? This idiot?” he said, waving dismissively at Aramis.

“Hey,” Aramis said calmly.

“Not him, no,” Treville said, before speaking into his communicator. “Now, Porthos, if you would?”

The door opened and Anne d'España swept in, looking du Plessis up and down and judging him worth less than a beetle under her shoe. Treville rose respectfully as she marched up to the desk.

“‘Godless government’, Armand?” she snapped. “When I’m as good a Catholic as you, if not better. I don’t kill people to convert them.”

“She heard all of it,” Porthos, standing behind the Prime Minister, confirmed in a stage whisper.

“Prime Minister,” du Plessis said, his face so chalky now, Treville thought he might actually drop dead. “I had my reasons.”

“I don’t care,” she said, cutting him off with her hand. Jean? Tell him.” She sat in the chair he vacated and fixed a steely blue stare on the originator of so much misery. She looked like a queen. Cool. Beautiful. Tough as titanium.

He gave her a little bow. “Ah yes. The Prime Minister wants me to tell you that you have two options, Armand. You can either give us all the names and details of every militant you command, full information on weapon stores and intended targets, and anything else we need to know to crush the CounterReformationists, along with all the information on your embedded spies in the public service, before resigning and returning to Old Earth, never to return—or we can present all our evidence to the President, with the Prime Minister’s testimony as to what she just heard validating our discoveries. No doubt Louis will be _tremendously_ amused by your activities, and won’t insist on your immediate execution which remains one of the president’s prerogatives.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Treville smirked at Aramis before turning back to du Plessis. “Try me. Please.”

**********************

Six months after coming to New Paris and starting work at the hospital, d’Artagnan quit. He’d handed in his two-week notice two weeks ago, and walked out of the place with all his belongings in the pack on his back, without anywhere to live, or a job to go to.

He didn’t care. After Kylian and Damien went off to live with Kylian’s brother in New Marseilles, the days had become almost unendurably dull, and the pleasure of seeing true justice done over Prisoner A had long since faded. Once Constance had told him she’d she had found someone else, there was nothing holding him in the hospital or the city. He didn’t even need to stay on the planet, though he probably would.

He had a little money put by. Now he had to decide whether to try his luck in the city, or return to Lupiac to help in the recovery efforts. The appeal of the farm still lingered, but without his father, would it be the same?

“Charles d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan blinked at the smartly dressed woman who’d addressed him. “Yes?”

“Minister Jean-Armand du Peyrer respectfully invites you to lunch with him today. If you have time.”

“The minister...why?”

“I don’t know, sir. He only sent me to collect you, if you are willing to come.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t like he had plans.

The woman turned out to be a chauffeur in charge of a sleek black vehicle which moved smoothly and quietly along the city streets and out to the green belt. She drove him up to the front steps of a large and beautiful house inside huge and impressive grounds. “You’re expected inside, sir,” she said, holding the door open for him. “Just go in.”

“Uh, thank you.”

“I’ll be here to take you wherever you wish to go, when you leave.”

“Thanks again.”

He walked up the stairs and a man in a sharp black uniform came out to greet him. “This way, sir.”

The man led him into the house, which was as elegant and graceful as its exterior, and took him to a small dining room. There were three people sitting there, two men and a woman, none of whom he recognised.

“Charles, come in,” the oldest man said, rising to greet him. “Or is it d’Artagnan?”

“Either’s fine,” d’Artagnan said, shaking his hand.

“I’m Jean-Armand du Peyrer, Minister of State. This lovely lady is our gracious host, Ninon de Larroque.”

“Pleased to meet you, madame,” he said, nodding at her.

“And this gentleman, you already know.”

The other man walked forward and offered his hand. “I’m very glad to meet you again, d’Artagnan.”

The man was shorter than him, clean shaven, good-looking, but completely unfamiliar to him. “Hang on. I’ve never met you before in my life.” D’Artagnan looked at du Peyrer in confusion.

“You have, you know.” The minister seemed to be secretly amused at something or other. D’Artagnan stared at the mystery man again. but no, nothing came to him.

“Jean,” the man murmured. “Stop being a shit.”

“Very well. D’Artagnan, let me introduce you to Olivier de la Fère. Otherwise known as Prisoner A.”

D’Artagnan stepped back in shock. “You’re dead.”

“I’m really not,” the man murmured, grinning.

“I _killed_ you.”

“You really didn’t,” du Peyrer said.

“You boys are such _utter_ bastards,” the woman said, coming forward and taking d’Artagnan’s arm. “I’m Ninon. Do you prefer Charles or d’Artagnan?”

“D’Artagnan,” he managed to choke out. “What’s going on?”

“Sit down and we’ll explain everything,” she said, leading him over to the table, and ringing a little bell. “I promise it will all be fine.”

Over a splendid meal which at first he was too shocked to enjoy, d’Artagnan learned the truth of how he had, all unknowingly, helped free a prisoner working _against_ the Cardinal who had turned out to be the recently resigned Armand du Plessis. And by doing that, d’Artagnan had helped to bring down the Cardinal, and end the regime of terror he had started in a cynical exercise to win power and topple the democratic government.

“Lemay tricked me.”

“For a good cause,” the minister said. “Olivier really was being tortured, and really was in danger of dying.”

“He tricked me into killing someone!”

“But I’m not dead,” de la Fére said.

“That doesn’t matter! Who else was working for you?”

“Constance, Kylian and Damien. Those aren’t their real names,” the minister added.

D’Artagnan thought his heart would explode with anger. “You...they...pretended to be my friends!”

“Yes,” Du Peyrer said bluntly.

“They had to,” Ninon said more sympathetically. “We were desperate.”

“And I’m very grateful,” de la Fére. “You did save my life. Does that not count for anything?”

“No! I mean, yes, it does. But why didn’t you just _ask_ me to help?”

Du Peyrer rolled his eyes. “I thought Constance said he was bright.”

“Jean, don’t be unkind,” Ninon scolded. “D’Artagnan, du Plessis’s people were everywhere. Who do you think spread the rumour that Olivier was the cardinal?”

D’Artagnan boggled. “ _Pascal_ worked for you?”

“Who the hell is Pascal?” du Peyrer asked de la Fére, who shrugged.

“I meant people higher up than the nursing staff,” Ninon explained. “He wanted to make sure if anyone reported what they were doing to Olivier, that there would be limited sympathy for their victim.”

“I remember you,” de la Fére suddenly said. “I remember your hands on me. You were...careful. None of the others were. But you were. And you were kind.”

D’Artagnan flushed. “Not always,” he mumbled.

“I only remember when you were,” de la Fére said, looking at him with clear, green eyes. D’Artagnan had never seen them before today. They were nice. Kind. “It meant a lot to me. It means a lot to me that you cared enough to end my pain, even though you believed I’d killed your father. Which I hadn’t, of course.”

“I know. So, did you all bring me here to tell me the truth?”

“That,” du Peyrer said, “and to thank you. And to offer you a job, d’Artagnan. We’ve had a bit of an egress of staff recently due to, er, security concerns.” De la Fére coughed theatrically. “And Constance spoke very highly of you. She said you were bright, brave, good-hearted, and quick to learn. I could use someone like you in my office. As a junior aide in fact.” For some reason, that made de la Fére smile widely.

“Me? In an office? Sir, I’m a farmer.”

“Who became a nursing assistant, then a killer, and now you’re unemployed and at a loose end. You were meant for great things, d’Artagnan. You come from a proud lineage.”

“Sir?”

“Olivier can explain after lunch. Will you consider it?”

“Sure. I mean...yes, sir. When?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Next week,” de la Fére said, his eyes twinkling. “Give the lad a holiday, Jean. He’s been through a lot.”

“You can stay here,” Ninon said. “There’s every chance you might run into some more people you know.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Du Peyrer smirked. The meal continued in a leisurely fashion, but when it was over, the minister said he had to return to his office. “Olivier will make sure you know where and when to come,” he said. He offered his hand. “Glad to have you on board, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan shook his hand, “Thank you, sir. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“That makes two of us.” Du Peyrer turned to Ninon and kissed her cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yes, you will. Let me walk you out. Olivier, the garden is at your disposal.”

De la Fére rolled his eyes. Once they were alone, he turned to d’Artagnan. “That was my hint to take you outside and let you bombard me with questions, so come along.”

D’Artagnan followed him out into the lovely gardens. He stopped to admire the lush beauty of it all. “Wow.”

“Yes. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t walk too far or fast just now. I’m still recovering.”

“What happened to you was awful.”

“Yes. And you got me out, so, again, thank you. What do you want to know?”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “They were torturing you when they took you out of the ward, weren’t they?”

“Yes.” De la Fére reached the place where a pretty white table and two chairs stood, and sat down, waving at the other chair to invite D’Artagnan to do the same. “They kept bright light shining in my eyes, so I was just as blind as with the coverings over my face. They wouldn’t let me sleep, and forced me to listen to screams and sounds of people in pain, then threw questions at me. And there were...other things. Of which I would rather not speak.”

D’Artagnan felt sick. “Did it work?”

“No. Not for want of trying. I’d rather not discuss this. If you can bear not to, I mean.”

He squared his shoulders in case D’Artagnan persisted, and he knew he could not do that to this man who had suffered so much. “Why you? Why were you working for the minister? And why did they imprison you?”

“Jean and I are old friends. He was friends with my father first, in fact. I worked for him, started in the same job he just offered you.” D’Artagnan stared in surprise. “I was in a domestic partnership with a woman. A happy relationship, I thought. Unfortunately I discovered that she and my brother were having an affair, and worse, using my position and office to authorise monetary transfers and fraudulent purchases. I discovered what they were doing and, though it broke my heart, reported it all to Treville.”

“Treville?”

De la Fére paused. “Ah. It’s Jean’s nickname. Mine is Athos, by the way. I prefer it, like you prefer d’Artagnan.”

“Right.” D’Artagnan was confused again. “Then what happened?”

“She killed my brother to cover her escape before she could be arrested, and inveigled her way off planet. I didn’t hear a word from or about her in six years. In the meantime. Jean recruited me to work for him as he and others investigated what du Plessis was doing. Just before I was kidnapped, I’d discovered my former partner had returned with a new face and a new name, and was behind various heinous crimes. What I didn’t know was that she had worked out I was a musketeer—”

“A what?”

“One of Jean’s team. She realised I was spying for him, and told du Plessis. They kidnapped me, and the rest you know.”

“So she wanted revenge.”

“Oh, yes,” de la Fére—Athos— said, his smile slipping. “But I’ve had mine against her now, and I hope never to see her again.”

“Wow. That’s some story. What do you do in real life?”

“Now? I run an art gallery and deal in decorative furniture and goods. Perfectly respectable.”

“Are you rich?”

“Quite. Why, do you want money?”

“No. You just sound rich, that’s all.”

Athos smiled. “Yes, I suppose I do. Now, I’d like you to meet some mutual friends of ours, and tell you about Charles, Comte d’Artagnan, and how he become the most famous and beloved captain of a bunch of troublemakers called the Musketeers.”

**********************

Kylian and Damien—Porthos and Aramis, Isaac and René, d’Artagnan had no idea what he should call them—greeted him like a lost brother, and after getting over his crankiness at their deception, d’Artagnan had to admit it was good to see them again. They also worked for du Peyrer—Treville—in his secret spy gang, and assured d’Artagnan he would be seeing them in his new job.

He coped with all that quite well, he thought. It was nice to meet Doctor Lemay again and to learn he was as genuinely kind and moral as d’Artagnan had judged him to be before these revelations, and that his praise had been genuine.

It was the last person Athos invited to come and speak to him, before walking off and leaving him alone with them, who d’Artagnan had a problem with. Because he’d fallen hard for Constance, and to learn it had all been fake on her part, _really_ hurt.

“I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been so desperately important,” she said. “Athos was _dying_.”

“Yeah, I know,” d’Artagnan said, scowling. “But you swore you weren’t doing exactly what you _were_ doing, and you made me...like you.”

“I know,” she said, wringing her hands and biting her lip. “The worst part about it was that I’m absolutely rubbish at this kind of thing.”

“Not so rubbish. You had me fooled,” d’Artagnan said.

“Me too,” she said quietly.

“Huh?”

“I said, I had me fooled too. I couldn’t just _pretend_ to like you, Charles. I really did like you. I do like you.”

D’Artagnan blinked. “You...do?”

She nodded, not looking at him. “If I was a proper spy, I could have played you like a fish and not thought anything about it. But then I had to go and fall in...I mean...I started to like you.”

He took her hands. “You fell in like with me?”

“Yes.” She looked up and saw his grin. “Very much in like.”

“Maybe...as much in like as I am?”

“Maybe. Do you hate me?”

“Do you want me to pretend to?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I don’t. I really, really am in like with you, Constance. Even though I don’t know your real name.”

“Bonacieux. Constance Bonacieux.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And I really, really am in like with you, Charles d’Artagnan. So now we know who we both really are, and who we really both work for, could we, maybe, try this getting to know each other thing again, for real this time?”

She looked so hopeful, he wanted to laugh. He took her in his arms. “Yeah, I think maybe we can.”

Then he kissed her. This time, it was real.

**********************

“Aw,” Porthos said.

“I do love a happy ending,” Aramis agreed, putting his arm around Porthos’s waist.

“You two reprobates have no respect for anyone else’s privacy,” Athos said, tugging them away from the hedge through which they were peeking. “It’s quite amoral.”

“Good thing you love us anyway,” Aramis said cheerfully, slinging his arm around Athos’s still too skinny shoulders.

“Yes, I do. Now let’s leave the young people alone to get on with it.”

Porthos put his arm around Athos’s shoulders too. “I missed you ordering us around, you know that?”

“Funny, I didn’t miss you at all.”

“Yes, Athos. We absolutely believe you,” Aramis said, then tickled him in revenge. But gently, because their dear friend was still frail, and Aramis sure as hell wasn’t going to allow him to die twice on them this year.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this story is that all the major countries on earth were given their pick of Terra-formed planets and allowed to shape them how they chose, some five hundred years before this story is set. The medical stuff is mostly realistic.
> 
> The title comes, of course, from Portia's famous speech in "The Merchant of Venice" by Shakespeare
> 
>  
> 
> _The quality of mercy is not strain'd._  
>  It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven  
> Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:  
> It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.  
> 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes  
> The throned monarch better than his crown.  
> His scepter shows the force of temporal power,  
> The attribute to awe and majesty,  
> Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;  
> But mercy is above this sceptered sway;  
> It is enthroned in the heart of kings;  
> It is an attribute to God himself;  
> And earthly power doth then show likest God's  
> When mercy seasons justice.


End file.
